Collected Ficlets and Drabbles
by spiralingdown
Summary: A collection of funny and fluffy USUK one shots and drabbles.
1. Call Me, Maybe?

**AUTHORS NOTE: **Hey, guys! This is just a collection of small, random, often funny fics I wrote a whole ago. I'm not really in the APH fandom any more, and I very seldom write for APH, so I figured I'd dump all my old fics en masse. I'll be finishing a few and editing them, but I won't be posting any full fics, just my drabbles and one shots. Here's a collection of stories that I'll be updating as I find more of them. I hope you enjoy them! I've kind of graduated to the Supernatural fandom now. If you'd like to hit me up and talk about anything, you can find me at .com. These stories are short, and I wrote them over a year ago, so they aren't my best work. Some are beta'd, some art, and they're mostly lighthearted. Enjoy!

* * *

Arthur hated his job.

He was fairly certain that there were no benefits to his job, aside from money. Which he could get doing any other job. The customers were rude, pushy and demanding, his boss was an idiot, and he was pretty sure that his coworker was telling customers that they were sleeping together. The music was bad, the coffee horrible, and Arthur had had to take his ear piercings out when he was hired.

So, all in all, he really didn't care if he was fired. The money really wasn't that important to him.

He tried to ignore Felicity, who was batting her long eyelashes at one of the customers. He would have though it inappropriate conduct for an employee if it wasn't for the fact that the customer was an old blind woman, and Arthur was fairly certain it was a ploy to make him jealous or something. Felicity wasn't exactly the brightest crayon in the box, and she kept shifting her eyes over to him, as if waiting for him to look at her. Arthur refused. She was too loud, too annoying, too blonde, and too goody-two-shoes for him. And she couldn't make a decent cup of tea to save her life. That was probably one of the greatest drawbacks of being a Starbucks employee.

Felicity whipped her head around, ponytail bouncing beneath her visor, and rattled off an order in her annoying voice. Arthur didn't understand why she always talked to customers and he was stuck making coffee, but he didn't care as much. Before Feliks had been fired, Arthur would be stuck making coffees with Felicity, who rattled off the most mundane and vapid trash constantly. Still, it was annoying to see her leaning over the countertop the entire shift, drumming her fingers against her chin while Arthur ran back and forth, making coffees and getting orders for the drive through window.

Arthur made coffee irritably, watching Felicity out of the corner of his eye. He wasn't exactly watching her - rather, he was watching the customers that stood in front of her, hoping for some kind of saving grace - Gilbert and Elizaveta, ordering their usual caramel macchiato (for Gilbert) and straight black coffee (for Elizaveta - and praying that "his favorite customer" didn't show up.

Arthur's "favorite customer" frequented the little café quite often, sometimes stopping by twice a day. He was the only person who wasn't charmed by Felicity's giggling, smiling charade. There were three reasons. The first reason was that Felicity turned up the charm to an obnoxious level when this particular customer came, instantly forgetting about her pursuit of Arthur, and the customer didn't seem to find her gooey eyes all that attractive. The second reason was that he was a complete idiot, and didn't seem to realize that she was flirting with him. The third and final reason was that he was too busy trying to talk to Arthur than bother with the cute, buxom blonde in front of him.

His name was Alfred Jones, and he was _annoying_.

Whenever Alfred came around, Arthur would immediately try to run to the bathroom or the back of the little kitchen. He was usually in a bad mood already; having to talk to the guy who was constantly checking out his ass was even more annoying.

Amazingly, Felicity still hadn't noticed anything, despite the fact that Alfred would, at times, completely ignore every word that came out of her mouth. She probably just figured that he was shy. Or playing hard to get.

She really was an idiot.

There was no Alfred so far, thankfully, but also no Gilbert or Elizaveta. No one to save him from the annoying music and annoying coworkers. Bethany was in the back somewhere, probably texting, like she always was. Arthur hadn't really talked to her all that much, because she was weird. Apparently she was one of Felicity's friends, which was why she got that job, but she stared at Arthur in a completely different manner than Felicity. Arthur had run into the two of them on the way to a concert once. Felicity had looked at him like he was a piece of cake, Bethany like he was the Antichrist. After that, she never really talked to him, though she did occasionally cross herself when he entered the store in the morning. She had nearly had a heart attack when, upon meeting Gilbert and his loud mouth, it was revealed that Arthur had a tattoo on his back. The unnatural way in which her eye had twitched still haunted Arthur's dreams at night.

Felicity's offhanded remark about seeing it was a little bit worse. Even Gilbert had been slightly offended.

It was almost time to leave, Arthur noticed, staring at the clock. He accidentally squirted too much whip cream into the coffee, and had to use a spoon to shovel it out of the cup. The customer, a harried business man, didn't seem to care too much. He was too busy trying to keep his eyes off of the chest of the blonde teenager working the counter. Arthur rolled his eyes.

Only about forty five minutes left. There were only forty five more minutes of annoying customers and shitty music before Arthur was free. He had Mondays and Tuesdays off, so he wouldn't need to be back for a few days. No more Felicity, no more Bethany, no more creepy business men who had statutory rape fantasies…

_I threw a wish in the well, don't ask me I'd never tell…_

Of course, it wouldn't be a normal day at work if he didn't have to endure some kind of torture first.

There was a loud commotion at the door, but Arthur didn't turn around, too busy making overly sweet coffee and trying to block out the sound. It wasn't until he realized that Felicity was completely silent, neither chatting loudly nor singing badly, that he realized something was wrong. And then, suddenly, he heard another voice along with Carly Rae Jepsen's.

_I wasn't looking for this, but now you're in my way… _

Alfred.

Dancing into the café.

Arthur legitimately felt like crying.

Alfred was dancing into the store, a plastic spoon held up like a microphone to his mouth. He was dancing, not exactly in the most talented manner, and pointing at Arthur. If Arthur didn't know he was only eighteen and incredibly anti-alcohol (Alfred gave out a LOT of personal information), Arthur would have assumed he was drunk. The fact that he was completely sober just made things even worse.

_Your stare was holding, _

_Ripped jeans, skin was showing, _

_Hot night, wind was blowing, _

_Where you think you're going baby?_

Arthur's face was on fire. He knew his face wasn't red - he didn't actually blush - but it felt warm enough. He almost covered his face when it got to the chorus. Alfred was almost to the counter.

_Hey, I just met you, _

He was at the counter, pointing directly at Arthur.

_And this is crazy, _

_But here's my number, _

_So call me maybe?_

Felicity was staring. A lot. She was staring at Arthur as though she had just had her heart broken violently, eyes practically welling up. There was no doubt that she had realized that Alfred was either gay or an idiot, but Arthur could see on her face that she was putting two and two together and getting five, figuring that because a gay guy was hitting on Arthur, he was gay too.

_And all the other boys_

_Just try to chase me _

_But here's my number, _

_So call me maybe?_

Bethany was edging closer to Felicity, eyes wide as saucers and a bible clutched to her chest. Arthur had too look away, not wanting to see if that twitch thing started up again. He focused instead on making coffee for the man at the drive through, who was now trying to push his head into the window in an attempt to see just what the hell was going on.

_You took your time with the call. _

_I took no time with the fall, _

_You gave me nothing at all,_

_But still you're in my way_

Alfred was now practically on the counter, leaning forward and making dramatic gestures with his arms. He was very obviously clumsy, so he almost knocked a sugar canister off of the counter. He was making puppy dog faces and singing, loudly and off key, while everyone in the store stared in shock.

_It's hard to look right, _

_At you baaaaaaaaaaaabbbyyyyyyyyyyy,_

_But here's my number,_

At this point, Alfred winked, and opened a bag, letting a million scraps of paper flood onto the counter, most of them with a phone number and then "Alfred ;)". Slowly, ever so slowly, Arthur edged toward the coffee maker.

_Before you came into my life, _

_I missed you so bad, _

_I missed you so bad, _

_I missed you so, so bad, _

_Before you came into my life, _

_I missed you so bad, _

_And you should know that, _

_I missed you so, so bad, _

Arthur hated his job. He hated the bad coffee, the idiot coworkers, the insane customers. He hated the bad music, and the smell of coffee, and the gossiping girls, and the business men who checked out teenagers and talked into their bluetooths as they ordered their coffee. He hated the hipsters and he hated the wannabe hipsters.

And so it was without regret that he grabbed the pot of coffee, put on a big smile, reached over the counter, and emptied the entire, steaming pot of coffee directly onto Alfred's shoes.


	2. Breakin' In

"What? What do you mean you're not home?"

"You knew my flight was today. Yes, bu- no. No. Mu- okay, look, that's brilliant and all, but what do I do now? No, mum, it's bloody_ pouring_. Fine. Yes. No- No, mum, I- of course not. Of course. I would never," a sudden grunt, "Yes, yes, I'll do just that. Yes. Okay, bye. Love you, mum." There was the quiet beep of a cell phone, and then just the sound of the rain, when…

CRASH!

Alfred jumped up with a small squeak, suddenly (and painfully) made aware of the fact that, unless he was hearing things, there was someone _in his house_. He froze for a minute. He could hear muffled movement downstairs, and he quietly inched himself off his bed, abandoning a comic book to the floor. It landed on a carpet of laundry that desperately wanted washing, but probably wouldn't leave the room unless it passed a sniff test and was deemed eligible to wear out of the house.

Quietly,_ quietly_, Alfred inched across his room to the closet. The door opened with a squeak, making him scream inside a little, but he tried to remain as calm as possible. He grasped the baseball bat firmly, and made his way through the dark hall and began the treacherous descent down the stairs.

All the lights were off in the downstairs section of the house. The only sound came from that stupid clock his mom wouldn't get rid of. It was creepy. Alfred thought he would die. He was going to end up like one of those dumb girls in the movies, face cut to ribbons, hair all shaved off, with some mundane and sharp object sticking out of her neck. That couldn't happen. He was too young, too good looking, to die. He hadn't even done all he wanted to yet. But the images reeled through his mind. Pictures of himself, all cut up, left in the closet, tied up, with only his superman boxers, now shredded to pieces, on him, eyes gone, fingernails ripped off, with half his chest carved up into intricate and morbid designs, all spelling out the names of gruesome Russian fairy tales-

He backed into something - no, someone - and froze for a moment. Before he could assess the situation, he did the first thing his body let him. Shrieking, he spun around, raised the bat, and hit the intruder in the back of the head.

"Jesus fucking Chris-"

"SHUT UP! I- I'm warning you! What are you doing in my house?" Alfred backed up, clutching the bat in one hand. He flipped the light switch on, and pointed the baseball bat at the intruder, who was now doubled up and holding his head.

"Your house - the fuck d'you think you are?" The voice was, undeniably, British. It was also, undeniably, furious. With a growl, the person, a young man, stood, clutching the back of his head. His hair was a rumpled mess of ash blonde color, and his eyes, beneath thick eyebrows, were extremely green.

And extremely pissed.

Alfred gulped. The pissed off kid stepped forward, rubbing at the back of his head, but Alfred brandished the bat at him.

"I'm warning you!" Alfred snapped, waving the bat around like an idiot. He nearly knocked the stranger in the side of the head at least twice. "You just stay right there! I'm going to make a call… And you're going to stand right there…" He was inching over toward an end table, hand knocking over picture frames and almost a lamp as he attempted to snatch up the phone receiver.

"This is fucking ridicu-"

"Shut up!" Alfred began dialing into the phone. After a minute, he frowned, and began dialing again, frantically, before he realized that the receiver was dead - as were his chances of surviving this night alone. _Goodbye, world_, he thought glumly. _Goodbye, Mattie. Mom, Dad. Annoying Pizza Hut guy that likes to rip people off. Late World of Warcraft games with Kiku. Hamburgers. Chocolate sundaes. Chocolate hamburger sundaes. It was nice to know you all-_

"Can you please put that bloody bat down?"

Alfred screamed, and the phone went flying. He nearly dropped the bat, too, but he managed to snatch it up in the nick of time (if it left a mark, his mother would kill him in a much more terrifying fashion than any sex-crazed, European axe murderer). "I thought I told you to shut up!" he squeaked.

The sex crazed, European axe-murderer scowled and took a step forward. Alfred instinctively took a step back, and began flailing the bat around. The intruder wasn't intimidated - hell, he actually seemed to get more irritated. He took a quick step forward and lunged for the bat, locking the two of them into a desperate struggle for the only weapon. In the end, Alfred ended up backed against a wall, holding the lamp for support, while the British kid leaned on the bat and glared at him.

The kid opened his mouth, but Alfred cut him off (again).

"If you kill me, my parents will know!" Alfred blurted, "You know, they won't just let you come in here and kill me. They'll have your ass. You'll be in jail for twenty to life, all because you decided it would be fun to crash into someone's house and take their shit and do something crafty with a baseball bat and then sli-"

"Are you on drugs?" The British kid demanded. "I was just trying to get into my house-"

"This isn't your hou-"

"-only to be assaulted by some idiot with a baseball bat-"

"You barged into my fucking house!"

"-which is assault-"

"Self defense! It's legal!"

"It's stupid," the British kid snapped, "and some idiot is in my hou-"

"THIS IS NOT YOUR HOUSE!" Alfred bellowed, stopping the guy in his tracks. He picked up one of the picture frames he had knocked over earlier, and shoved it in the intruder's face. "Does this look like your family? No? THAT'S BECAUSE IT ISN'T YOUR HOUSE. That's me, and that's my brother, and that's my mo-"

"Oh."

Alfred wrenched the picture back. "Yeah. Oh."

"Fuck," the British guy moaned, and frantically fished a cell phone out of his pocket. "What's this street address?"

"2304."

"Dammit, James," the guy growled, furiously tapping something into his cell phone and muttering something about murder.

Alfred blinked. "Uh… my name isn't James…"

"Not you, you idiot," the British kid snapped. "My brother. He gave me the wrong bloody street address. He probably fucking did it on purpos-"

"Um, not to be rude or anything," Alfred cut in, setting the lamp back on the end table, "but, like, who the fuck_ are_ you? Do you belong to that British family that just moved in?"

"Er… yeah. They've been here for nearly a year," the intruder said, holding the baseball bat out to Alfred. Alfred darted forward and took it quickly, ignoring the eye roll he received. He clutched it to his chest protectively. "My name's Arthur. Arthur Kirkland."

"Alfred Jones, at your service," Alfred said with a flourish, practically hitting Arthur with the baseball bat yet again. "Are you still in school?"

Arthur was texting something again, and answering somewhat distractedly. "Ah… yes, I'm in the uh… shit… how the hell do you guys do schooling? Well, I'm seventeen."

"Oh, me too." There was an awkward pause. "Then, uh… I'll probably see you at school…"

"Probably," Arthur agreed, just as awkward. He waved his phone a little, before saying, "Um… I should probably get going…"

"Uh… yeah. Do you need help getting in your house?"

Arthur gave an airy wave, "No, no, it's fine. Thank you for your troubles. Sorry for trespassing."

"Uh… No problem?"

"Right." They both paused, and Arthur turned around and began heading back to the open window (how he had opened it without breaking it was beyond Alfred), where two nice suitcases lay, as though haphazardly thrown in through the window. Arthur picked them up, and threw one of them out harshly, while the other one he lowered to the ground in a somewhat gentle fashion. After that, he jumped right out the window and waved.

A few seconds later, before Alfred could even process what had just happened, he heard another crash and another string of cusswords, this time coming from the house of his neighbors.

_Things are about to get interesting_, Alfred thought, meandering up to his room and watching the other house from the window as Arthur crawled through a shattered window, similar to his own downstairs.

* * *

**jfc, this was also hilarious to write. **


	3. Riding the Storm

"That smells like shit."

Arthur tossed a quizzical glance over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow at his friend. The blonde was sprawled across the couch, a general air of Not-Giving-A-Fuck radiating from around him ( Arthur knew better) as he looked idly around the dark room. He probably couldn't see Arthur's questioning expression, but he clearly sensed something, because he raised an eyebrow in return. "What?"

"…It smells like sugar cookies."

"I know," Alfred moaned, rolling over and pressing his face into the back of the couch. His response was muffled and longing. "But if I pretend it smells bad, maybe I won't get hungry."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Dumbass."

"So I've been told," Alfred rolled so that he was facing Arthur again, "Why don't you have a lighter? You're, like, the only person I know who uses matches."

"Because my mother told me to always play with matches," Arthur said sarcastically, scratching another match against the packet. The room was ringed with candles, most of which had been pulled from either Arthur's room or his parents' room, in a series of painful and difficult escapades into each territory. Arthur's room was far cleaner than his parents, but unearthing the long sticks and candelabras from his closet (a few of the many remaining traces of Arthur's occult phase) was another matter entirely. The room now smelled like a variety of aromas, some of which smelled delicious and some of which smelled… sub-par. Or waxy. Alfred wasn't fond of it, and tried to stay away from Arthur's candelabras. He claimed that all they needed was a skylight and a virgin, and they would be set for selling their souls to the devil (Arthur disagreed - it was a far simpler task than Alfred made it out to be; his Grimoire even said so).

"Annnd…. Here we go. Last ones." Arthur struck the match out, and turned to look at Alfred. He spread his arms in a flourish, motioning to all the candles. " 'Then God said, "Let there be light"; and there was light.'"

Alfred frowned. "I didn't know you were Jewish."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "I'm not. That was just from the bible."

"Oh." Alfred frowned again. "Then why do you have a Menorah?"

Arthur turned, looking at the object in question. It was sitting peacefully on the small table between two recliners, blazing in all its nine-candled glory. "That is an excellent question, Alfred."

Alfred nodded. He slid from the couch to the floor, and sat criss-cross applesauce, holding a couch pillow to his stomach. He pulled his laptop towards himself, and watched with a determined look as the screen lit up, casting him in a bluish light. Arthur didn't find it a very attractive color, not with all the real candles in the room. Alfred muttered a swear word.

"What is it?" Arthur asked, flopping onto the carpet next to Alfred. He reclined back against the couch.

"The internet isn't working." Alfred told him unhappily. Arthur let out a small snort, and rolled his eyes.

"No shit. Just play some music or something. If you're going to kill the battery, you might as well put something on anyway."

"Nah, five seconds from dying anyway." Alfred turned the laptop off and slid it away from himself on the floor. He stretched out with an unsatisfied sigh and glared at one of the candles childishly.

Arthur stood up and flopped directly onto the couch, one arm beneath his head. He could hear the storm raging outside. There was no lightning, only occasional thunder, and a _lot_ of wind. And rain. The rain was absolutely pounding. Arthur would have preferred if Alfred's laptop hadn't died, because the sound was really getting annoying. Of course, he could still fall asleep with it. Arthur could sleep through anything.

"Hey, Arthur-"

_Including_ Alfred.

"No."

"You don't even know what I was go-"

"I will not let you roast marshmallows over the Menorah in the living room," Arthur said, rolling onto his side to face the back of Alfred's head. "My parents would kill me. There must be some purpose to it, and I'm sure that that purpose has nothing to do with s'mores."

Alfred pouted. Arthur couldn't even see his face, but he could tell he was pouting. When he turned to face Arthur a few seconds later (nearly smashing the back of his head into his friend's nose), Arthur saw that he was right. Alfred spent a few minutes sulking, and Arthur spent a few minutes ignoring him. After a while, Alfred looked at the couch.

"Hey, scoot over."

"What?" Arthur raised an eyebrow and spread himself out a bit more. "No."

"C'mon, just move."

"Alfred-"

He was scooted, albeit against his will. He ended up in a slightly uncomfortable position on the couch, with Alfred attempting to snuggle into his side, while he quipped back that the British didn't "snuggle". Alfred whined. Arthur told him to move to the other fucking couch.

"You're too fucking big for this, Alfred! Move!

"But you're totally scrawny, so it's fine."

"You asshole, get off of the couch!" Arthur attempted to shove him off of it, but Alfred was strong. He, like the idiot he was, wouldn't budge.

"But it's fucking cold!" Alfred whined. "I won't move."

"You idiot. If my parents come home to you and I passed out on the same couch, in a room full of candles, they would definitely think I was gay."

"I don't even see why you keep denying it-"

"Because I'm not gay, you asshole!" Arthur gave one last, futile shove. "Move your ass, Alfred!"

"I won't!" He burrowed further down into the couch, tossing the throw blanket onto the both of them. "Your parents wouldn't even care if you were gay, Arthur! They would just welcome me into the family and bake some brownies."

Baking brownies was how Mrs. Kirkland dealt with problems and achievements alike. Arthur suspected that it was a habit acquired from years of drug usage and a steady supply of marijuana butter in her high school years, but he never directly asked her. Judging by the stories his father told, though, he was inclined to believe that his theory was correct.

"While I'm sure you are correct, I don't think that would be the proper way to come out to my parents."

"You're right. I think you should paint your chest rainbow colored for the next football game and come running onto the field with a banner and some glitter. Don't worry. If you come at me with a flying hug, I'll catch you. We can even give you a dance number."

Arthur smacked Alfred in the face with a pillow. "Thanks, Alfred," he said sarcastically.

"No problem, man. I got your back."

Arthur made a face and pulled the small, green blanket closer to himself. Alfred gave it up almost willingly (so much for being cold). He spent the next few minutes musing over Alfred's sexuality.

"What about Kiku? If anyone could turn you gay, it would probably be Kiku. Nice and calm. Seems like your type."

Arthur burrowed back down into the couch, pulling the blanket to his chin. He looked at Alfred out of the corner of his eyes, and said, very sleepily, "Doubt it."

"Doubt what?"

Arthur's eyelids were getting heavy. "Kiku."

And with that, he fell asleep.

* * *

He woke up about ten minutes later and shoved Alfred off of the couch, yelling at the blonde to go blow go out all of the candles. Alfred obliged, ignoring the blowjob jokes that came every so often. By the time he stumbled back to the couch, the room was pitch black, the wind was still howling and the rain still pounding. He stubbed his toe four times, and Arthur hogged the blanket. Mr. and Mrs. Kirkland arrived home the next morning to find the two of them snuggled together on one couch and the room covered in candles. Both of them were puzzled about the Menorah, and Mrs. Kirkland set off toward the kitchen to start on breakfast and a batch of brownies.

* * *

**AN: This one was fun to write! It's one of the oldest ones. **


	4. Winter Breath

Arthur had never been particularly fond of winter. It was too cold for his liking. And wet. He wasn't used to snow - he had grown up in a rainy environment - but after a while, he concluded that it was just as wet as rain, and he wanted nothing to do with it.

Sure, there were a few things he liked about winter, such as Christmas or New Years (New Years especially; it was typically celebrated with alcohol), but it was generally an unhappy, irritating period of time. It was slightly improved in that this was the first year in which Arthur didn't have to put up with any of his older brothers for the majority of break (though they would all, sadly, be home for Christmas). He had to deal with Peter, but at least he was old enough by now not to need a babysitter. It was his third winter in America, and he was sure that it would be spent in the same manner as his second year - that is, being dragged around by Alfred.

Currently, the two of them were Christmas shopping. Neither of them had been allowed to take a car, so they were forced to spend the majority of the morning huddled together for warmth on buses. By the time they stumbled out of the bus and into the mall parking lot, Arthur was freezing.

"Alright, let's go!" Alfred said cheerfully, and yanked on Arthur's hand. Upon seeing that Arthur was gloveless that morning (Peter had taken them), Alfred had proclaimed, loudly and boisterously, that no hero would allow such a fair maiden (Arthur had punched him for that) to go gloveless. He had given one of his gloves to Arthur, and told him to stick his other hand in his pocket. Alfred, being Alfred, had ulterior motives, and had used the fact that they each a had a hand that could be exposed to the elements to create an excuse for holding hands. Arthur hadn't bothered retaliating.

"Hey, look, it's one of those Salvation Army guys!" Alfred exclaimed, dragging Arthur by the hand behind him. Arthur cussed a little, and grudgingly allowed himself to be pulled along.

Alfred stopped abruptly in front of the bell ringer, who smiled up at him (women _always_ smiled up at Alfred), and released Arthur's gloved hand. He patted himself down for a moment, and fished out his wallet. He spent a few minutes rifling through it, frowning, and looked up at his boyfriend. "Artiiiiiiiiiie?"

"What?"

"Do you have any change?" Arthur scowled and pulled out his wallet. He found two dollar bills and a few loose coins, and passed them to Alfred. "You're an idiot. Here you go, love."

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw the Salvation Army bell ringer go stiff. She had begun to make a face, too, but caught herself and instead gave a thin smile to Alfred.

"Thank you," she said, a little tightly.

"No Problem!" Alfred said with a big smile. He turned to Arthur, and asked him brightly, "You ready to go?"

Arthur slipped his gloved hand into Alfred's and reached up to give him a quick kiss on the cheeks. "Of course." He tugged lightly on Alfred's hand, guiding him toward the doors. "Merry Christmas," he called over his shoulder to the bell ringer, who stuttered her own Christmas wishes back to him.

"What was that about?" Alfred asked Arthur, amused, once they were in the store and beginning to de-thaw. "Not that I'm complaining."

Arthur brushed it away. "Don't worry about it. Now, what was it you were looking for?"

* * *

**AN: ahhhhhhhhhhhhh this stuff is so old! Sorry! This is like, the oldest of the batch. **


	5. And I Feel Fine

If someone had once told Arthur that he would gladly give everything he had for a set of dry matches, he probably would have rolled his eyes and dismissed them as paranoid. He had listened to that "End of the World" crap for most of his life, mainly from classmates and teenagers and, on one occasion, a particularly insane girlfriend who had begun to excavate a rather expansive bomb shelter underneath her apartment complex. Even now, Arthur would still probably classify people like her as crazy.

Still, Arthur had nearly had a heart attack as he watched Alfred strike their final match not once, but twice, and cuss as nothing happened. Arthur had motioned him over and, praying to a god he had stopped believing in after his dog had been hit by a car when he was twelve years old, Arthur had scratched the match against the packet. Both of them had stared in dumbstruck wonder as it flared to life, staring at the match as though it were the most beautiful thing they had seen in their entire life, laughing small, relieved laughs as the light from the match illuminated each other's faces. After a moment, Alfred had let out a loud whoop, Arthur continued to laugh his nervous, shaky laugh, and then they had quickly tossed it to the makeshift fire, Alfred pouring the final contents of their heavily rationed gasoline can on top. It had flared to life immediately, and Alfred had stepped back so fast he nearly fell, cheering.

Arthur was sitting directly in front of the fire wrapped in a comforter, Alfred's broken down truck a few yards behind him. Alfred was working on keeping the kettle safely situated over the fire, dangling at the end of a crowbar he had retrieved from the back of his truck. Every once in a while the two of them would switch places, each of them doing their part to turn the dirty river water into something worth drinking.

Arthur watched as Alfred pulled the crowbar back from the fire, the end that he was holding wrapped in a scarf to keep it from burning his hand. He set the kettle down gingerly, then dropped the crowbar with far less care. He poured the contents of the kettle into a long canteen in his hand, and then poured some of the water back into the little cup that served as the lid of canteen. Other than the kettle, some assorted silverware, and a few paper plates, it was the only real dish they had, the rest of them having been stolen or lost.

Arthur was staring at the fire when Alfred sat down next to him, gingerly holding the cup out. Arthur carefully took it in his hands, still gloved, thankfully, and took a small drink as Alfred sidled up next to him, pulling the comforter so that it covered both of them. Arthur was surprised to find, instead of just freshly boiled water, the faint taste of cheap, unsweetened tea. The flavor was mediocre and nowhere near strong enough, but to Arthur it was the best taste in the world. He didn't even care that he had practically burned his tongue.

"It's tea," he said in bewilderment, lowering the cup down and looking Alfred. "How-"

Alfred smiled, the light from the fire dancing across his face and warming up his features. The lighting was attractive on him. Arthur had long forgotten that it had been a long time since either of them had a proper shower, or that there had once been a time when neither of them had any dirt on their faces. It just looked natural now.

"Only the best for you, m'dear," Alfred said, smiling his large, lopsided smile. Arthur unconsciously reached up and flicked a piece of hair out of Alfred's face, wishing his glasses weren't so smudged. Still, Alfred's eyes were bright and blue behind them, even in the minimal light of their small fire. "I nicked a bag from that car we found further up the river."

"Oh," Arthur said, not sure how to communicate how incredibly sweet he found that. He passed the cup to Alfred and let his head drop down to lay on Alfred's shoulder. Alfred leaned his head against Arthur's. "I'm sorry we don't have any coffee, Alfred."

Alfred started to shrug but stopped halfway there, apparently remembering that Arthur's head was on his shoulder. "It's fine. I don't hate tea." He took a drink, and even from that angle, Arthur could see him screw up his face a little. Arthur smiled. "It's just horrible. Tastes like England."

Arthur's knees were drawn up toward his body, but Alfred's legs were stretched out a bit. Arthur gave Alfred a small kick, the corner of his foot hitting Alfred's ankle underneath the blanket.

"Nothing wrong with England."

Alfred nudged back with his foot, ever competitive. Still, there was no real venom to Arthur's words or their little battle.

Alfred tilted his head a bit to look at Arthur and smiled. "Yeah. Nothing wrong with England," He said softly. He passed the cup back to Arthur. "Still, coffee would be nice. Or beer."

Arthur gave a small laugh. "Yes, beer. Beer would be nice."

They sat like that for a while, staring at the fire. The damp ground was cold beneath them, but they were warmed by the hot breath of the fire, and by the comforter stretched out to cover both of them, body heat trapped underneath it. They would pass the cup back in forth, both of them taking small sips to preserve what was left. Eventually, Arthur took of his scarf and wrapped it around Alfred's neck, pointing out the fact that Alfred was using his to cup the hot canteen and catch any spilled tea. Alfred had rolled his eyes and resituated Arthur's scarf to wrap around both of their necks, despite the fact that Arthur called him an idiot for doing so. It was long and thick enough anyway, Alfred said.

Every once in a while, there would be faint noise in the distance. Sometimes there would be a slight vibration rippling under the ground. Still, they felt alone there by the fire, the quiet sound of the river reaching them through the trees. In other places there were explosions and noise, people sitting together like them and drinking or sleeping or crying or having sex and spending their final night they way they believed they should. Arthur and Alfred were away from all of that.

Alfred leaned down and gave Arthur a small, chaste kiss on the lips. He resettled himself again, head on top of Arthur's, and used a stick to prod at the fire, slowly diminishing as the night dragged on. "It feels almost like camping," Alfred mused aloud.

"Hmm," Arthur said, trying to scoot even closer to Alfred. Their legs were already somewhat entangled, Alfred's legs extended outward, shoe almost peaking up from under the comforter, Arthur's right leg loosely bent over Alfred's left one. His other leg was pressed tightly to the one arched over Alfred's. They were trying to stay as close and warm as possible. "I've never been camping."

"Really?"

"Mhmm."

"Huh." Alfred had his right arm looped around Arthur, hand draped lightly against Arthur's stomach. "I'll have to take you sometime."

"That sounds like fun."

"Yeah. No s'mores, either?"

"We tried making them once in the oven," Arthur said mildly , playing with Alfred's fingers under the blanket. The lid to the canteen had been screwed back on it and was sitting at his side, but every so often one of them would unscrew it and take a drink, or hold it up for the other. "It was a disaster."

"I can imagine. You probably burned the hell out of them."

Alfred received an elbow to the ribs for that, which just made him laugh and hold Arthur a little bit tighter. He smiled something of a sad smile, watching the fire. "I guess I'll just have to make you some real ones, huh?"

"Yes. You're quite the outdoorsman, Alfred."

"Yeah. We used to go camping every year for the fourth of July. We'd light huge fireworks off over the river, even though it's totally illegal. It was awesome." He leaned down and gave Arthur another quick peck on the lips, then laughed. "This one year, the forest police came and started cracking down at the guys camping next to us…"

They sat like that for the rest of the night, telling stories and laughing, the fire slowly dying before their eyes. They didn't lay down or try to sleep; neither of them wanted to spend their final night asleep and apart when they could have been awake and together. They told stories and traded small kisses and light laughs for the rest of the night, focusing on each other instead of wondering whether or not they, or anyone else, would survive until sunrise.

* * *

**Some, End-of-Days-esque fluff. Saddest thing I wrote for this fandom. **


	6. To Places Unknown

"Alfred, please get off your phone."

"I'm busy, mom."

"Listen to your mother, Alfred."

Alfred heaved a heavy sigh, unceremoniously dropping his cell phone into his lap. He tried to prop his elbow up on the car door and hold his head in his hand, but it wasn't working. Well, at least not comfortably. He watched the countryside fly by, and then heaved a loud, anguished sigh. He watched his parents out of the corner of his eye, hoping for a reaction, but his father kept his eyes on the road, and his mother kept hers on the book in her hand. Alfred looked out the window and did it again, this time with more feeling.

His mother did turn around at that, pushing her sunglasses up on top of her head and closing her book. She slid her thumb in to keep the place, and Alfred continued to stare melodramatically out the window.

"Alfred, I don't understand what's wrong. You used to love visiting Charlotte and William."

Alfred tried to subtly toy with his phone, flicking the screen on to see if Kiku had texted back. He hadn't. "Yeah, but that was when I was, like, five. It's so boring out here. It's just sheep."

"It's beautiful out here, Alfred," his mother reprimanded him, nodding to the windows. "Just look at the landscape. And the weather is so nice."

"England doesn't have nice weather, mom. It has rain that is occasionally interrupted by the sun." Alfred sat up a bit straighter in his seat, staring straight at his mom. "Hey, can we go to Whitechapel? Jared said that he went there, and got to check out all this Jack the Ripper stuff."

His mother opened her mouth, possibly to delicately put her answer, but her husband interrupted her with a small snort. "Whitechapel is the last place I'm taking you in this country, son."

Alfred frowned, rolling his eyes. He looked back down at his phone, which was slowly dying. Kiku still hadn't texted back, so he had to resign himself to Angry Birds.

Still, his mother wasn't ready to give up. She turned around in her seat completely, closing her book (something about the color gray. She was currently revolving between that and_ Eat. Pray. Love._) to frown, perplexed, at her son. "What has gotten into you? We came all this way to see them, and you're throwing a fit."

"I dunno. How come Matt couldn't come?"

"He has finals, Alfred. You know that." She leaned back in her seat, running a hand through her wheat blonde hair. "You should be excited."

"I'm gonna have no one to hang out with," Alfred muttered, staring out the window. His mother insisted it was beautiful, but to Alfred, it was just boring. And worse: his cell phone was on the brink of death. It was a terrible car ride.

"Arthur will be there. He's on break right now, too. That should be fun."

"Yeah, well, I don't like Arthur. He made me eat a worm."

"No, honey, that was James."

"Oh." Alfred paused, perplexed. His iPhone went black at that moment. "Then which one is Arthur? Mom, can I use your car charger?"

His mother groaned, exasperated. "No, Alfred, not right now. You know Arthur. You two had so much fun together. You fought all the time."

Alfred rolled his eyes, and resumed looking gloomily out the window. "Well. Sounds exhilarating." He watched as the country flew by. It wasn't completely fair. Italy was fun. Italy had food. And Germany had been fun. There was beer in Germany. France had been okay, but at least it was better than England. Boring, rainy England. Just because his father happened to have some old college buddies, his parents seemed to think it was okay to drag Alfred to the remotest corner of England for some quality time in a tiny village with no one he knew. Alfred didn't like it. There were plenty of things to do in London, but his parents didn't seem to understand that. They should have known that already; they had lived in the country for two years.

It seemed like an eternity of driving. Alfred fell asleep, twice. England was friggin' tiny; why did it take so long to cross? He opened his mouth to ask when they would get there when, suddenly, his father veered off of the main road, steering into some rural village.

The road was generally smooth from there. Just a quick drive through the little town, and then they were off on some other little road, driving out to the Kirkland estate. Alfred was getting apprehensive, itching to get out of the car and stretch his legs. The house was in view. They were pulling up to the house when, in a fast, dangerous blur they were interrupted by what looked like two speeding motorbikes.

Alfred watched as the two flew by, one of them veering off and crashing into a nearby tree, the other quickly following suit, narrowly missing the first rider. They fell into a heap at the bottom of the tree, erupting into what could either be heard as laughter or horrifying sobs. Mrs. Jones's hands leapt to her mouth, her face contorting in horror. Mr. Jones stopped the engine immediately, but his wife and son were both out of the car already, Mrs. Jones bounding to the two riders, Alfred just curiously watching from the door.

"Arthur!" Mrs. Jones called, approaching the two riders, her youngest son vaguely trailing behind her. "Arthur, are you all right?"

One of the riders, the first one to crash, looked up immediately, cutting himself off in the middle of a sentence that sounded like a death threat to the other. His helmet was slightly askew, and there was a small line of blood trickling down from a newly formed scratch on the side of his neck. Still, when he looked up it was with a big grin, eyes watering slightly from the laughter, an emotion mirrored by his friend, who was still laying under his own motorbike, laughing.

"Hey, Mrs. Jones!" He said cheerfully, pulling his helmet off and revealing a tousled head of tawny brown hair. "I'm fine!"

Alfred watched as the boy jumped up, offering a hug. He laughed when Alfred's mother refused it, not wanting to get blood on her shirt, and gave her a kiss on the cheek instead. Alfred listened to him laugh, hauling his friend up off of the ground, and vaguely thought that England couldn't be all that bad.

* * *

**So, I haven't been on in ages, and I was checking out my old favorite authors, and Besame Mucho still isn't finished?! What's up with that?! ****_i want. _**


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